


Otiosos

by LadyPrince



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Retrospective, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyPrince/pseuds/LadyPrince
Summary: It is in writing a letter he does not complete that Ciel Phantomhive contemplates nothing of absolute worth, yet still he contemplates.





	Otiosos

**Author's Note:**

> A stream of consciousness fic about death, beauty, remorse and penitence, in which I use Ciel as a way to reflect on his world. 
> 
> As an off note: it was very difficult to actually figure out when the UK and Britain began to use the metric system. If my quick and sloppy research is correct, it happened in the extremely late 1900s (1965 to be more specific) and not the 1800s, despite being introduced in the 1790s and later on accepted in 1837 in France. UK still used measurements such as miles, nautical miles, yard, foot, inches, and furlongs to do their measurements for an extremely long time.
> 
> [ Here is the encyclopedia Britannica brief history on it for anyone curious.](https://www.britannica.com/science/British-Imperial-System#ref299767) This also includes the comparisons of the US system v. British systems prior to the acceptance of the metric system [that I believe the USA did first].

Beauty is only skin deep, or that is what Ciel likes to say. Beauty, perhaps, is the greatest curse one can have; worse than the demon that clings to his body and threatens him ever so with the end of his life. Beauty, Ciel thinks to himself while playing with a violet quill, really is nothing more than an error in God’s creation. A mostly empty paper stares back at him, the letter at the very beginning being the only thing to glare him into reminding that he has better things to do, yet he lets black ink drip onto the paper and make disgusting splotches as he thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

Pondering is, truly so, worse than the sin of murder; to think leads one down to the endless roads that they may have been able to take. What if he has not made the deal with the demon? What if he has decided to err on the side of caution and decide, instead, to listen to the madman Undertaker’s words for salvation? What if he has told Lizzy he has no love for her, not the love she hopes? What if, what if, what if.

The black splotches on the parchment beneath grow wider, turning into accusatory puddles, and Ciel stares up at the ceiling of his office. He waits, and ponders; his fingers become stained with the ink, seeping into his skin, and he wishes that the colour will devour him so and rid him of his worldly stupidity.

It is not regret that paints him; what is there to regret? It is not remorse that drowns him; he has never a reason to be remorseful in his lone decade of life. Has he any need for penitence? No, of course not. What penitence is there to give to the boy who has sold his soul for a demon so foul?

His fingers curl around the quill; the feather is beginning to fall to ruin, the blades bending unnaturally, and he dips the tip back into the jar of ink. As black as death, or so they say; a liquid void that makes him think of the way Sebastian has risen from his world to meet him. Blackness that extends out around into the room, where he cannot tell where the demon begins or ends, with red eyes open wide and unblinking and teeth spread into a horrific, madman’s grin.

Psychotic and beautiful, if he is to be frank. Perhaps that is why demons are associated with curses: their beauty is endless, their narcissism admirable, their greed understandable. Perhaps that is why angels are unattainable and distant: their beauty oppresses them, and God does not want the world to see the error He has made.

To think God self-conscious makes him snort. What is the Devil, then? Confident? Or perhaps just an extension of the anxiety of God? How pitiful it is to think of such beings that way, yet Sebastian has shown him no reason to think them higher, or believe kindly otherwise.

Darkness soaks into the feather and ink drips down in rapid drops onto the table, onto the parchment, and Ciel stares back down onto the unfinished paper. It is a mess of spots and blacks, of ink spreading around and he wonders if Sebastian’s hand will reach out to grab him from the ebony stains. Will he wrap his hand around his throat, and take what is rightfully is?

Will the contract stop him? How is he to know – even if Sebastian has sworn to never lie to him, Ciel has never asked him to tell him the truth about their contract prior to the demand.

He breaks the quill, calls Sebastian in, and tells him to buy a new one – his butler smiles at him that damnable smile, the smile that has led many an adult to sin before they meet their unfortunate ends, and the smile that tells Ciel that he is not long for this world. He rolls the parchment up, gives it to Sebastian and tells him to throw it away.

Ink-stained fingers brush briefly against white cotton gloves, dirtying the eerie perfection that is his butler, and Sebastian does not bat an eyelash, does nothing more than smile.

He throws the bottle of ink at Sebastian and watches as he catches it, then stands so that he may go and wash his hands after his butler has made his leave.

 

 

[There is a church a few furlongs away that is drenched in art and beauty, attempting to emphasize the absolute gorgeousness of God. A series of murders of young adolescence line the church floor, hidden underneath in its cellars where none but workers shall dare tread, and the Queen will send him a letter soon enough.

 

Beauty is nothing but a curse, and the demon by his side is the embodiment of it.]


End file.
